Children of Time, Ep 8: Watson and Sparrow
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: College girl Sally Sparrow has more than enough stress in her life, without finding personal messages under decades-old wallpaper... or statues that move when no one's looking... or run-ins with a sad-eyed, handsome journalist, who always seems to be waiting for someone... Standalone/sequel to "Stolen."
1. Touched by an Angel

**==Chapter 1==**

**Touched by an Angel**

_What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.  
_—T. S. Eliot

The sun was shining, the day was warm for the time of year, and a certain Time Lord and Company had a catastrophe to prevent. And it was always in such moments that one was distracted. Case in point: the female voice calling the Doctor's name.

The Doctor stopped and turned, eyes wide—not many strangers did that to him. The female in question was young, twenty-ish, dark blonde, warm amber eyes… and oddly familiar. "Hello! Sorry, bit of a rush, there's a sort of… _thing_… happening, fairly important we stop it."

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but Holmes cut her off. He and Watson had slowed to a halt a few yards ahead, both bearing bows and arrow-filled quivers. "Doctor," the detective said impatiently, "we haven't the time for this—the migration has begun."

The girl's gaze settled on Watson; the Doctor had no idea why.

"Look, sorry," he continued, "I've got a bit of a complex life. Things don't always happen to me in order. Gets confusing, especially at weddings—I'm rubbish at weddings, especially my own."

The girl's mouth formed an "O", heartache in her eyes. Then, suddenly, the Doctor knew exactly why she seemed familiar, and it stole his breath away. "Oh my god," she said quietly. "Of course, you're a time traveller—it hasn't happened yet. None of it—it's still in your future."

Oh no, not again. The Doctor frowned, concerned for her. "What hasn't happened?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Watson looking at his pocket watch. "Doctor, it's twenty minutes to red hatching…" His voice trailed off as he looked up, attention captured by the young woman who couldn't seem to keep her eyes off of him.

The girl's breath caught. "It was me… Oh, for God's sake, it was me all along. You got it all from me…"

"Got what?" the Doctor said gently.

She returned her attention to the Doctor. "Okay. Listen. One day you're going to get stuck in 1969." She handed him a plastic purple envelope. "Make sure you've got this with you. You're going to need it." Hmm, this was kind of like that Merlin thing, all over again.

"Doctor!" Holmes cut in urgently.

The Doctor glanced in his direction. "Coming!" He turned back to Sally. "Thanks. Listen, got to dash—things happening. Well, four things. Well, four things and a lizard."

The girl nodded—rather numbly, he thought. "Okay." She took a breath, obviously not okay. "No worries, on you go. See you around some day."

"What was your name?"

"Sally Sparrow."

The Doctor smiled. "Good to meet you, Sally Sparrow." He looked forward to getting to know her in the future.

She nodded again. "Goodbye, Doctor," she said quietly, an undercurrent of despair in her voice.

He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he really did have to run, and she would find things out soon enough. He was certain of it.

As the three men continued down the street, Watson looked back. "Doctor, who was that?"

"I don't know—" that wasn't strictly true, but one just had to let these things play out—"we're meeting out of order again, like we did with Kit."

Watson nodded, looking relieved and yet apprehensive, probably wondering why the girl looked so sad. Sooner or later, the Doctor was certain he'd find out.

* * *

_One week later..._

Watson sighed as the TARDIS settled; once again, they had landed off course. According to the Doctor, they were somewhere outside the town of Newbury, which admittedly wasn't far off where they'd been aiming for: the International Balloon Fiesta in Bristol. Given the Doctor's track record of ending up where there was trouble, though, Watson was rather dubious about their chances of making it to the festival at all.

The Doctor opened the door, for once ahead of his Companions, and stepped out into a large and dimly-lit warehouse. From what Watson could see in the grey light filtering through the high, dust covered windows, whatever company owned this building clearly sold statuary. The warehouse was packed with sculptures of human figures, most of them crated, some merely wrapped in protective padding, but also a large number standing freely around the place. Watson frowned at the eerie spectacle – this kind of statue had always seemed a little _too_ lifelike for his taste. Even the Venus de Milo in the TARDIS gallery made him feel uneasy whenever he visited on his own, with her blank, eggshell eyes...

The Doctor pulled out the sonic and started to scan in all directions. "I need to make me a timey... wimey... detector," he muttered.

Holmes gave him a Look. "Do you often explain temporal mechanics to infants, Doctor?"

Watson glanced over at Holmes reproachfully, and with a touch of concern as well; he had noticed lately that the detective's tongue was a good deal more acerbic than usual.

The Doctor, however, didn't miss a beat. "All the time, and you would not believe how much they understand. Someday, babies from every race are going to unite and take over the universe – just you watch." He flashed Holmes a grin and moved on through the warehouse. "Not _seeing_ anything that would create a temporal disturbance, but the readings are off the charts on the sonic..."

"Now, that I could actually believe," Watson said lightly, responding to the Doctor's earlier comment. "The amount of times I've seen newborn twins jabbering away together, I'd swear sometimes they were hatching some nefarious plot..."

The Doctor turned to him, eyes alight. "Oh, they probably were! I've heard 'em do it – I do speak Baby, you know."

Watson chuckled. "I suppose it is a dialect of sorts – I'd never thought of it that way before."

Holmes silently cast his eyes upwards, then tensed and held up a warning hand at the sound of a slight rustle towards the back of the warehouse.

The Doctor turned and pointed the sonic in that direction, which began to vibrate violently. "Blimey. All right..." His Companions followed, equally wide-eyed.

"What is it?" Holmes demanded.

The Doctor frowned. "I don't know – and for once, I don't like that. It's nothing the sonic can identify, but whatever it is, it's wildly wrong – the sonic can tell that and so can I." He grimaced. "Hurts." The Time Lord carried on, fiddling with the sonic as he went, muttering, "If I can just narrow the field..."

Watson was too preoccupied with the Doctor's discomfort to give much thought to his other companion, until he looked around and realised that Holmes had fallen behind. The detective was turning into the nearest aisle between the stacks of crates, he must have seen something. "Holmes, wait, I really don't think you..." Watson trailed off with a sigh as his friend vanished from view, and started after him. "Holmes! Come on, old chap, this isn't the time to wander off."

When he got to the corner, however, he stopped short in surprise. Holmes was nowhere in sight – and Watson could see clearly that there was nowhere for his friend to have gone, either. This aisle was a dead end, with nothing but a granite-coloured statue of an angel at the far end, its hands covering its face.

"Doctor..." Watson looked back to where he'd last seen the Time Lord, and frowned in annoyance – now the Doctor had wandered off. "Doctor?" The call echoed in the dusty air; it was starting to dawn on Watson that it was just a little _too_ quiet at the moment. Soldier's sense tingling, he headed off in the direction he'd seen the Doctor going, but couldn't find a sign of him.

"Holmes! Doctor!" Still no answer. Watson pressed his lips together tight, exhaling heavily through his nose. "Wonderful..." The Doctor had said something about a temporal disturbance when they'd made this detour, although he clearly hadn't expected any of them to get caught up in it! He'd better get back to the TARDIS – the ship would probably know what had happened and, more importantly, how to fix it. Surely they could work out some way to communicate clearly...

But when Watson made his way back to where they'd landed, he stopped dead, swearing softly. The TARDIS was gone, too.

* * *

Holmes hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him. Dazed, he dimly heard the Doctor landing beside him with a choked cry of pain, also gasping for breath. After a few moments' struggle, the detective found himself able to lift his head, groaning as his stomach protested against the movement. "...Doctor..."

The Doctor sat up slowly, also groaning. "Sherlock... You okay?" He grimaced, face pale. "I mean... nothing permanently damaged?"

Holmes ignored the question, looking around as he pushed himself upright with difficulty, eyes widening in alarm as he realised that Watson was nowhere to be seen. "Watson?"

The Doctor copied Holmes' frantic scan of the rubbish-filled alley they'd appeared in, but only for a moment or two. Softly: "Holmes... it was... Oh. Ohhh. _Thick_." He smacked himself on the forehead, wincing. "Holmes, it was just the two of us. Watson's okay."

Holmes staggered to his feet with the help of a convenient wall, terror and fury roiling in his gut, not feeling in the least reassured. "_What_ was just the two of us, Doctor?" he snapped. "What the hell happened back there?"

"We were blasted back to 1969," the Doctor answered solemnly. "Watson's still in 2007."

"What?!" Holmes was sure his face was now as pale as the Doctor's.

His companion grimaced, massaging his temples. "We just made a really severe move through Time and Space – mostly Time, though. Do you remember Sally Sparrow?"

The anxious detective forced himself to concentrate, no easy task with his thoughts still spinning. "The... blonde girl, yes? The one who stopped us in the street last week?" _Why_ hadn't he paid closer attention at the time?

The Doctor started to nod, then thought better of it. "Yeah." He started to rummage through his inside coat pocket. "She said that I would get stuck in 1969 someday… Ah-ha!"

Holmes sagged in relief as the Doctor pulled out the envelope. "All right, so... what shall we do now?"

The Doctor looked up, squinting around. "Find the nearest café where we can get some tea and look through this stuff..." He peered inside the envelope, Holmes looking over his shoulder – it seemed mostly full of papers, along with a few photographs and a plain, spiral-bound notebook.

The detective nodded unthinkingly, then winced as the throbbing in his skull turned to stabbing pain. "Right after we obtain some pain-killer..."

"Mm." The Doctor dug back into his coat and handed Holmes a wallet.

Holmes looked at him oddly. "You have currency for 1960s Britain?"

The Doctor gave him a Look in return. "I used to _be_ in and out of the 1960s all the time."

Holmes sighed, he might have known. "Then add to the to-do list: Avoid running into past self." It had been far too much to hope that the Doctor might remember giving a lift to his tenth incarnation during a previous life. He searched through the wallet and managed to find some loose change and notes from the right decade; offered the Doctor a hand up, looking down the alley towards the street with more than a touch of apprehension. With any luck, 1960s Britain wouldn't be much worse than late 21st century America. "Shall we?"

"Mm." The Doctor laid a gentle hand on Holmes's shoulder. "Holmes, it's not going to happen again, all right? They're not here."

Holmes looked at his companion sharply; come to think of it, the Doctor had never specified just _how_ they'd been sent back in Time... "Who, Doctor?"

The Doctor's expression was grim. "The Weeping Angels."

* * *

**Author's Note from Sky:**

I hope the warehouse scene creeped you guys out as much as it did us! Poor... well, everybody, really! And why was Sally so sad and alone, you ask? Well, that would be telling, now, wouldn't it? =)

**Author's Note from Ria:**

I'm just thrilled to finally get to this episode. 'Stolen' was my favourite – I love that we were able to have such a big cast that time, and Dash was a joy to write, but... yeah, I've been looking forward to this one since our boys arrived at Los Alamos! ;D


	2. Neither Kith Nor Kin

**==Chapter 2== **

**Neither Kith Nor Kin**

'_I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air...'_

– John Watson, A Study in Scarlet

_Journal of John H. Watson, M.D. _

_Friday 10th August, 2007_

_This is the strangest journal entry I have ever had to cause to write. While investigating a 'temporal disturbance' – according to the Doctor – it seems I have become temporarily separated from both my companions and our vessel. I made a thorough search of the warehouse and surrounding grounds, but found no clue as to where or when any of them may be, and waiting for the last two hours at the spot where the TARDIS vanished from has been equally fruitless. I cannot be certain of the exact hour, my watch not being set to the correct time when we landed, but it is some time in the early afternoon. So much for the balloon festival._

_The logical conclusion would seem to be that this temporal disturbance has sent my companions either into the past or the future, and they are at present unable to make their way back to this time and place. I have no doubt that they will attempt to do so; however, I cannot remain in this warehouse indefinitely. If my companions are in the future, I can at this time do little more than continue to keep a record of my movements, so they may know where and when to find me at their convenience. If they are in the past, it seems reasonable to assume that they will do the same, leaving signs or messages that will last for however long it may take to reach me. I pray it may be mere hours that separate us, rather than years or centuries; I doubt masquerading as a teacher at the end of this century has sufficiently prepared me for living at the beginning of it. Needs must, however, and I shall begin as I mean to go on – or, I should say, I shall go on as I began: in London._

Watson put down his notebook and pencil, then made a thorough search of his pockets. Having been left alone in the middle of nowhere, it behooved him to know exactly what his available resources were. The results were hardly encouraging: his old pocket watch, reset to what he hoped was approximately the right time; a handkerchief with his embroidered initials, a Christmas present from Mrs. Hudson; oh, and his spare TARDIS key. A lot of good that was going to do him at the moment... wait... what if the TARDIS herself was the marker? She would be invisible to most, except possibly Torchwood – and no one else could get in without a key, anyhow. If the Doctor and Holmes were prepared to put themselves in stasis... Watson frowned. No. Holmes would rather die than allow such a thing again. He sighed, all this second guessing was starting to make his head hurt. He'd just have to do the best he could and hope like hell it was enough.

He repocketed everything but his pencil, then wrote on the wall next to where the TARDIS had been, in large black letters:

**LONDON**

**10/08/07**

**JHW**

He stood back, listening hard for any unusual sounds, and one in particular... but still there was nothing but the echoing silence of the deserted warehouse. Oh, well. He'd best be following his own directions and get to London. He had no money, and nothing of value that he'd even consider pawning, so going to Newbury to find public transport would be pointless – he'd simply have to walk...

* * *

Watson had been plugging away doggedly along the edge of the motorway for over an hour, doing his best to ignore both the constant rush and roar of passing cars and the steadily growing ache in his leg, but he was starting to despair of reaching even the outskirts of London before morning at this pace. Thank God for the warm weather, at least – this hike would have been much more difficult any later in the year...

His thoughts were interrupted by the unexpected sight of a battered white van slowing down ahead of him and pulling up next to the grass verge. As Watson drew closer, the driver leaned over and opened his passenger door: a well-built man in his early thirties, wearing some kind of blue, paint-spattered jumpsuit over a white T-shirt, with the sleeves tied around his waist. "Going far, mate?"

Watson shrugged, trying not to look overly eager – although the odds seemed fairly good that the driver meant him no harm. "To London."

The younger man jerked his head invitingly. "Going to Shepherd's Bush myself, hop in."

Watson hesitated a moment longer. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble..."

The driver grinned. "Course not, don't be daft! Hitch hiked myself a time or two, I know how it is."

Watson smiled back and climbed into the passenger seat, wincing as his leg gave another twinge. "Thanks very much."

The driver's grin turned sympathetic, restarting the engine. "Been in the wars, have we?"

Watson was too busy buckling his seatbelt to think before responding: "Afghanistan, yes." And he could have kicked himself the next instant for being so careless with Time-sensitive information.

Mercifully, the younger man only shook his head in disgust. "Bloody Blair..." He smiled at Watson in even greater sympathy, holding out a hand. "Mike Bishop. Glad to see someone made it home." **(1)**

Watson shook hands in immense relief, making a mental note to research the events of the last decade at the earliest opportunity. "John Walker. And likewise."

Mike pulled back out into the flow of traffic. "Good to meet you, John. Like the costume, by the way – great idea." **(2)**

Watson frowned in bemusement. "Ah, thanks..." He decided not to pursue the subject and broached another line of inquiry, making a conscious effort to speak the way he had while in 2093. "This may sound like a stupid question, but is there any such thing as free accommodation in town?"

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Blimey. Umm... not that I can think of –" He grinned suddenly: "Unless you want to try the homeless shelter!" chuckling at his own wit.

Watson didn't even crack a smile this time, he was too grateful to have such an option. "Would you take me there?"

Mike stared. "Mate, are you serious?"

His passenger smiled wearily, nodding. "I've had a bit of rough luck lately." To put it mildly...

"Well, haven't you got any friends in town? I'm happy to drive you anywhere you want, the wife's not expecting me back till tomorrow anyway..."

Watson shook his head. "'Neither kith nor kin'…" he murmured. "I'll be all right – I just need to get my feet back under me."

"Okay, if you're sure..." Mike shook his own head, clearly concerned. "Sorry, it's just... well, you seem like a decent bloke, is all, I'd hate to leave you stranded."

Watson smiled gratefully, touched. "You're very kind. In all honesty, though, it's either the shelter or the streets."

Mike closed his mouth at that, driving in awkward silence for several more minutes, before clearing his throat hesitantly. "Look, John... I know it's none of my business, I'm just your ride... but if you're in some kind of trouble..."

"No more than a simple matter of being unemployed and my money running out." Watson was glad his profession had given him plenty of practice at sounding reassuring. "Mike, I'll be all right, really."

His host still looked unconvinced, opening his mouth to say something else, then thinking better of it. "Okay, it's your call."

"Thank you." Watson leaned back, trying to take in the passing scenery, but quickly discovered that his eyelids had other ideas. It had been a very long day... but no, it probably wouldn't do to fall asleep in here, what would his... host think...?

Mike tsked kindly as Watson's head bobbed yet again. "Mate, you're knackered. It's another thirty miles to London – grab some kip."

Watson grinned sheepishly. "I might do that, thanks."

"Mind if I put the radio on? Don't worry, I'll keep it down."

"Not at all." Unable to work out how to make the seat tip back any further, Watson settled for resting his head on the seat belt, while Mike fiddled with a dial on the van's dashboard. Having had his eardrums blasted by numerous human and alien musicians since departing Baker Street, Watson was pleasantly surprised by the soothing music that drifted out of the speakers. The male singer's voice was rich and melodic, although Watson couldn't make out any of the lyrics until the chorus:

_And it's no sacrifice_

_Just a simple word_

_It's two hearts living_

_In two separate worlds..._

Watson smiled, a little sadly, and closed his eyes.

* * *

_Saturday 11th August_

_9:10 am_

_I arrived in Greater London yesterday in the late afternoon, thanks to the kindness of a passing motorist, Michael Bishop. His compassion went even further than I first thought, as after we parted ways, I was amazed and touched to discover a £10 note in my coat pocket, and a card bearing his address and telephone number. I am reluctant to burden anyone here with my troubles unless strictly necessary, but I confess I find great comfort in knowing that I have one friend to call upon, if only as a last resort._

_I succeeded in obtaining a meal and bed at the shelter, and spent the night with one eye open. At present, I am riding a bus to Baker Street, as I cannot think of a better place to continue my search for my companions. Surely they would leave a message there, if at all possible – or if they have not, I shall find a way to do so myself._

Watson stood gaping at the long line of sightseers outside the closed front door of what had once been his home. He'd been prepared to find 221B renovated, derelict, even non-existent – but a _museum_... Then he realised that his Victorian clothes, which had already earned him plenty of curious looks, were starting to draw attention from the queue, and gave the crowd as friendly a smile as he could manage before retreating. Regent's Park was mercifully still there, too, and he made for it, desperate for a cool, quiet place to sit and gather his thoughts. He was relieved to find the park largely unaltered from how he remembered it, even his favourite bench beside the lake was still there. He sank gratefully onto it, closing his eyes, drawing deep, calming breaths; if not for the constant noise of traffic, he could almost imagine himself back in 1895...

Once he felt a little more composed, he could see the funny side of the situation – and Holmes... good Lord, if his friend knew about this, he probably wouldn't know whether to be proud or furious. Watson didn't think he was overly vain about his writing, but he wasn't so modest that he couldn't work out that it was the Sherlock Holmes of his stories to whom the museum was largely devoted. And this being the future, there was no doubt a good number of adventures published that he hadn't even written yet... which meant that visiting the museum was out of the question. Even if he could afford the entry fee, it seemed certain that his companions wouldn't be foolish enough to leave a clue in a place where there were too many paradoxes waiting to happen. But what was he to do now?

His stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn't eaten breakfast. Sighing, he fished in his pocket for his remaining change from the bus fare, then stiffened as something sharp dug into his back through the slats of the bench. "Keep goin', mate, nice 'n slow," a voice growled in his ear. "Show me what you got."

Watson sighed, this day was just getting better and better. "Well, since you asked so nicely..." He let go of all but a couple of coins, taking them out of his pocket with exaggerated care, then before the mugger could react, tossed them into the air to his right. The thief's head automatically whipped around to follow the movement... only to have Watson's elbow jab viciously into his left temple.

Watson turned as he struck, rising swiftly to his feet, ready to follow up with another blow... but saw to his relief and disgust that it was unnecessary. His would-be assailant had crumpled to the ground behind the seat, out cold, broken sunglasses half hanging off his face. Watson glanced around, doubly relieved to find that the thief had at least chosen his moment well – there was no one else about just now, although that wouldn't last long. Feeling no compunction about robbing a thief, Watson rifled through the unconscious mugger's pockets, finding not one wallet, but two. He pocketed both, and after a moment's thought, threw the mugger's knife into the middle of the lake before making a beeline for the nearest exit.

He made his way to a nearby shopping centre, and sought privacy in the men's restroom. Once safely locked in a cubicle, he went over his well-gotten gains carefully. The first wallet, unsuprisingly, belonged to the mugger: Gary Morton, according to the young man's driver's license. To Watson's delight, the wallet also contained £35 in notes, and a decent amount of spare change. Of course, most of that probably belonged to the owner of the second wallet, who didn't seem to have a driver's license, but fortunately the name and address were written clearly on the inside: David Riley, Flat 10, Bucknall House, Powell Estate, Peckham. He must have been robbed quite recently, too, as the mugger didn't seem to have taken anything but cash, Watson being careful to check the names on the plastic cards in both wallets.

Pocketing the money and Riley's wallet, Watson meticulously wiped any fingerprints off Morton's cards before replacing them – he knew far better than to try using any! – then dropped the mugger's wallet into the toilet bowl and closed the lid. It would be found soon enough.

* * *

Watson knocked firmly on the door of Flat 10; the Powell Estate had only been a Tube ride away, and he could well imagine this David Riley's distress at losing his wallet, especially under such humiliating circumstances. Besides, handing it over to the police could lead to awkward questions, although he doubted that Mr. Gary Morton would be lodging a complaint with them over _his_ being robbed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the flat door opening a crack. "Yeah?"

"Sorry to disturb you," Watson smiled, "but I'm looking for David Riley. Do you know him?"

"Might do." The door didn't waver. "What you want with 'im?" Watson noted vaguely that the male speaker's accent was from Manchester, although he couldn't deduce anything else at the moment.

"I believe he lost something recently..." Watson took the stolen wallet out of his coat pocket, a brief second before the door flew open and a thin young man in a T-shirt and torn jeans stood staring at Watson, or more specifically, at what he was holding. Watson, on the other hand, was frowning in concern at the bag of frozen vegetables that the young man was pressing to the back of his head. "He did that to you?"

David's defensive scowl was eloquent, cheeks turning scarlet.

Watson could have kicked himself yet again. "Sorry." He held out the wallet with a pained smile. "John Walker. The bastard got my wallet, too – dropped yours when he took off."

David's eyes widened as he took his property back. "No way! Aw, mate, I'm sorry. You told the police?"

Watson shrugged. "Not much point." A faint smirk. "He got some loose change and a library card, that was about it." He was about to take his leave again, but his gaze fell once more on David's makeshift icepack, and hesitated. "Mind if I take a look at that?"

* * *

_Sunday 12th August_

_11:45 pm_

_What a weekend this has been – to call it educational would be a gross understatement. My insides still have not recovered completely from the Chinese takeaway which David's friends ordered last night to celebrate, and I have also discovered that these so-called 'energy drinks' have the very opposite effect upon me that they do on everyone else. David gleefully informed me that I fell fast asleep on the sofa in the middle of the Xbox marathon, and couldn't be roused until late this afternoon. _

_To my surprise, David and his friends have asked me almost no questions regarding my identity – although from my offer to see to David's head wound, he guessed that I was a 'St. John volunteer'. I can only surmise that St. John is some kind of medical organisation. There is still a great deal about this time which I must learn, but that will require a trip to the local library when it reopens tomorrow. I dare not arouse David's suspicions by using his computer to conduct research on subjects which I should, as a 21st century citizen, know all about. I have also had to wait until my young host retired for the night before making this entry. Were he or anyone but my companions to read what is set down in these pages, I shudder to think of the consequences._

_My most pressing concern, however, is how I am to live in this century long term. Money is fast becoming a problem once more, as is clothing – my usual attire was taking on a life of its own before David lent me a T-shirt and sweatpants so that I could do some laundry. He has been very kind, but I cannot rely on this sort of charity for much longer, and David has no need or desire for a permanent flatmate. Besides, his absent-minded habit of collecting empty fast food boxes seems even more of a health hazard than Holmes's chemistry set. Even if I were to lodge here, however temporarily, I should still need a source of income. Add to the to-do list for tomorrow: seek out gainful employment._

_Tuesday 14th August_

_12:15 am_

_Imagine my astonishment when, less than 24 hours later, I found what I was looking for, or rather, it found me. While David was out at work – he restocks the shelves at a local supermarket – I attempted to repay my host by making the flat a tad more liveable before heading to the library. Carting a load of pizza boxes to an outside dumpster, I met a man who was hauling rubbish bags to the same. I had time to spare, so assisted him with the rest – and the man turned out to be the estate's landlord. He is well acquainted with David's hoarding habits, although the young man apparently redeems himself by being one of the few tenants who pays his rent on time. I hastened to assure the landlord that I was looking for a more permanent living situation, and we parted ways amicably. _

_The rest of the day was spent in much more pleasant surroundings, making copious notes. I shall have to purchase a new notebook soon. I returned to David's flat this evening to learn that the landlord is prepared to offer me the position of groundsman, albeit temporarily, until he can officially hire someone else. Thankfully, my duties will not be overly taxing, merely tedious – beggars cannot be choosers, however, and I am most grateful to have paid work of any sort. I have also been informed that there is an unoccupied flat on the top floor, which I may move into once it has been fumigated. Thank God for the elevator, the prospect of climbing four flights of stairs repeatedly makes 221B seem like an easy stroll._

_Wednesday 29th August_

_It seems incredible that I have been almost three weeks in 2007 – and I seem to have spent most of that time either at the estate or the library, where they now know me by sight. It took me a while to work out what questions to ask, but my research is slowly yielding results. David turned out to be an avid conspiracy theorist and, once I had expressed an interest, was more than happy to introduce me to his friends on the internet. As I suspected, the Doctor's activities throughout human history have not gone unobserved by those who, like Holmes, have trained themselves to notice what others might dismiss or overlook. _

_The main obstacle seems to be, ironically enough, the Doctor himself. Almost every time I discover an indication of where or when he has turned up, it is impossible to determine where he was in his own timeline, or to find any description of his companions at the time – almost._

_It may or may not be mere coincidence – although I prefer to think of it as a hopeful sign – but there have been several sightings of the Doctor and the TARDIS on this very estate over the last two years. Unfortunately, going by the little the residents of Bucknall House have been able to tell me, they have all too clearly been incidents from the Doctor's past, as his companion at the time was Rose Tyler. Her and her mother, Jacqueline, were officially listed among the dead after the battle of Canary Wharf, the details of said event I will not describe here. I can only speculate as to what really happened that terrible day, but the sadness in the Doctor's eyes whenever he has mentioned Miss Tyler's name now makes more sense than ever. _

_On a happier note, I may soon be able to broaden my horizons. I dropped in to see David this evening and encountered one of his college friends again, who works part time at the college newspaper, the Courier. According to Andy, there is an opening for an experienced journalist..._

* * *

**Author's note from Ria: **Wow, we actually have footnotes for this chapter. Poor Watson, he's really been thrown in the deep end this time!

1: In 2001, Prime Minister Tony Blair agreed to send British troops to assist the US occupation of Afghanistan – Watson's lucky it's such a war-torn area.

2: Hitch hikers quickly find out that the main challenge of getting a ride is piquing the drivers' interests enough that they bother to stop. Mike thinks Watson has deliberately set out to get around this problem by wearing Victorian 'costume'.

**Author's note from Sky: **I just want to say that this entire chapter was written by Ria. There was no roleplaying between the two of us to script it out; it was all her. She wanted to show Watson surviving and adapting on his own, and she's done so brilliantly! Give her a round of applause, folks!


	3. A Run-In With Destiny

**==Chapter 3== **

**A Run-In With Destiny**

_"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."_

– C.G. Jung

Watson opened his copy of _The Courier_, scanning the contents as he strolled across campus. There it was_: 'Internship – starting on the ground floor' by John Walker._ Not the most brilliant heading, but at least the paper's editor had deemed the article acceptable. He had to admit, it felt good to have his work in print again, even if under a different name! When Holmes learned about this, he'd probably never let him hear the end of it... damn_..._

Watson shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. It had been... how long now, six weeks? And as far as he could tell, he was still no closer to finding his friends than when he first arrived. He'd looked everywhere in London he could think of, even taken a page out of Holmes' book by returning to the homeless shelter and making discreet inquiries among the regulars, but no one had seen a sign of the 'disappearing blue box' for months.

He sighed deeply, smoothing the now somewhat crumpled paper, and turned to the arts page. Perhaps he could visit the library for something besides research this week...

* * *

It was a lovely autumn day, so Sally Sparrow was taking advantage of the sunshine. Granted, this meant that she was juggling a couple of library books in her arm as she walked, but it was just too nice outside to stay indoors. She had one book (_London: A Social History_) open, and a small notebook open on top of it, into which she jotted down notes for her paper. She hadn't narrowed down her topic yet—all she had thus far was the history of London as a cosmopolitan city—but she had three weeks to get this done. She'd manage.

She turned the page, and then she was colliding with someone and her books were scattering on the pavement. She gasped. "Oh God, I'm sorry!" Blushing, she knelt down and started picking her things back up, feeling awkward and ridiculous.

Chiding himself sternly, Watson quickly bent down to help, his own cheeks scarlet. "Oh no, no, no, it was my fault!" He looked up as he handed the notebook back. "I should have... been..." ...good heavens...

Sally took the notebook back and tucked it safely along with the library books between her arm and side. "I should have been watching where I was going, too." She met his gaze and had difficulty not staring. The man was rather older than she was—looked as though he could be faculty—and was rather handsome in almost an old movie star sort of way. Longish ginger-blond hair, warm hazel eyes, and a very neat moustache... broad-shouldered... bet anything he'd played sports in college... and made half the girls swoon...

She smiled shyly. "Hi."

Watson couldn't help smiling back, charmed. "Hello." What a beautiful smile... her eyes hadn't shone like that the first time he'd seen her... Suddenly he realised he was all but staring and hastily pulled himself together. He held out his hand as they stood back up, then saw that he was still holding the paper in that hand and switched it to the other with a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Ah, John Walker."

She took his hand and shook it, liking him more by the second. He had a charming smile and deliciously smooth accent, rather like the old BBC accent. "Sally Sparrow." She let go of his hand to brush the hair away from her face. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Watson cringed inwardly next moment. He'd only just kept from saying _Yes, I know_ when she introduced herself, but surely he could have thought of a better alternative?

"So, I've never seen anybody so engrossed in the paper," Sally continued lightly. "What's it got this month?"

"Oh, the usual assortment." Watson managed to resist the temptation to point out his own article. "I'm afraid you surprised me at one of my guilty pleasures: the book review."

Sally frowned smilingly. "What do you have to be guilty about, reading book reviews?" She did it herself all the time.

Watson's smile turned rueful. "Because I deeply regret not having the chance to read them myself." So many wonderful stories in this century, and so little time – he hoped. "At least with these, one gets a sense of the reviewer's enjoyment – which I'll admit isn't a huge consolation, but still..."

Sally nodded in understanding. "I know what you mean." A bit of wistfulness entered her voice. "I haven't read half the classics that I'd like to, and reading for the purpose of writing essays only gets you so far." There were just too many books out there and too little lifetime.

Watson gave a huff of laughter. "Very true." He'd gotten some memorable Shakespeare essays back from his students at Milton High School. "Is that what you're studying here, literature?"

"Mm, in part. It's what I'm minoring in. My major is history." Sally flipped her hair over her shoulder and tilted her head back slightly. "What about you? What do you do?" She would venture now to say that he was not faculty.

"Freelance journalist – I write the odd piece for _The Courier, _among others." Which wasn't strictly true, but once he'd expanded his portfolio a bit, he hoped to be able to find more work. Another student brushing past them made Watson realise that they were still standing in the middle of the path. "I, ah..." Perfect, now what? He hadn't a clue what he was supposed to be doing, but he was certain that he shouldn't just let her walk away. "Actually..." _Oh, for God's sake, you idiot, what do people normally do in this century?_ "I was just on my way to get a coffee. Would you... care to join me?"

Sally's eyes widened—he was... was he asking her out for coffee? She'd had a couple of boys hit on her in the past, but she'd never so much as been asked out in her twenty years of life, let alone gone on a date. "Sure." She smiled more fully, flattered. "Sure, that'd be great. I mean, I would like that, yeah."

Watson beamed. "Wonderful!" He was about to offer her his arm, then remembered just in time that that wasn't done anymore. He sighed internally – he was all for equality of the sexes, but for him, the biggest letdown of time travel had been discovering how far the standards for common courtesy had fallen over the centuries.

Sally grinned back. Handsome _and_ adorable—and a bookworm, to boot. This man was quickly ticking off the check-boxes on the list of traits she found attractive. On the walk to the nearest cafe, she determined to find out a bit more about this man, who, come to think of it, she _had_ seen once or twice around campus before. "So, freelance journalist," she said conversationally. "That must be fun."

"Oh yes, but a lot of hard work, as well." Watson grinned as he opened the door of The Lab for Sally – this gesture he could get away with, at least. "Honestly, the amount of research I've been doing lately, I might as well be going for my own B.A." Although very little of that had been for a paycheck.

"Mm, I'd imagine."

"Morning, John, Sally," the cashier greeted them cheerfully. "What can I get you?"

The Lab was one of Watson's favourite spots on campus: a student-run café whose name allowed patrons to say they'd been in 'the lab' without admitting to skulking off for a coffee. What appealed to Watson most was the décor, which, as one might assume from the name, was essentially a chemical laboratory. The staff wore white coats and safety glasses instead of aprons, and the various beakers and flasks that the drinks were served in reminded Watson of Holmes' chemistry set with an odd sense of nostalgia, given that the results of his friend's experiments were often a lot more _interesting_ than he'd intended...

Watson returned abruptly to the present, trying to look like he'd only been frowning at the periodic table menu board. "What'll you have?"

"Ah, just a medium Americano, please." It was all she really needed—she'd already had her morning coffee.

"Mocha double espresso, thanks." Watson's main weakness in this century, served in a pair of test tubes; normally he'd limit himself to once a week, but this was a special occasion.

"Do you really like journalism, though, or is it just a stepping stone?"

Watson took out his wallet, looking at Sally curiously. "Ah, yes to both questions, actually. It's a fascinating line of work, I've learned a lot, but I don't plan to make a career of it." He'd be glad to go back to being a mere chronicler after this, leaving the investigative side of things to Holmes. "And you? History's a bold choice for a first degree – where do you see yourself going with it?"

"I'm wavering between a researcher—like, for documentaries—or a historical nonfiction author." She accepted her coffee with a nod of thanks. "With a little fiction thrown in. Maybe both—I still have a little under two years to figure it out." She shrugged, belying the anxiety she was dealing with over not being able to decide definitively on a course of action. Her problem was that she wanted to do too much, and life was not likely to let her do everything she wanted.

She led him over to a window table once he'd received his espresso. "How about you? What would you like to do beyond journalism?" Interesting that he was in-transit in his career—he couldn't be any younger than his late thirties.

Watson shrugged. "Well, life being what it is, personally I find it's better not to plan too far ahead. I've done a fair bit of travelling in my earlier days, though, and I'd quite like to do a bit more before I get much older." His smile turned wistful. "Maybe I'll try travel writing next." He was starting to wonder if he might need to widen his search beyond London... Oh. Watson suddenly noticed that he'd unthinkingly pulled out a chair for Sally. After a moment's uncertainty, good manners won out, and he nodded down at the chair invitingly, deciding to simply carry on as if such gestures were nothing unusual.

Sally smiled her thanks, charmed even more by this truly adorable man, and sat. "I'm jealous already." What she wouldn't give to be able to go traveling. She'd been told before that one's twenties was typically when one developed wanderlust, and she had a pretty bad case of it. It was one of life's greatest pities that one needed money to travel, and that no one at the ripe old age of twenty had money. "Where have you been?"

Watson sat down himself, considering his next words carefully. He certainly couldn't tell her he'd been travelling in Time and Space, but some things couldn't have changed much, like geography. "Oh, here and there," he said modestly. "America, for one – I spent quite a bit of time there, mainly in the Midwest." He managed a smile. "I even had a job as a high school English teacher, for all of a fortnight."

Sally frowned in sympathy. "Just two weeks?" That was... _odd_, to say the least. "How did that happen?"

"Just helping out a friend," Watson reassured her. "He was... going through a bit of a rough patch." His gaze drifted involuntarily to the window, looking wistfully out at the passing students. "I'm hoping to see him again one of these days..." He kept telling himself that it was only a matter of time before he found what he was looking for – but the worrying question was always at the back of his mind: how long?

Sally hummed in sympathy, sipping at her coffee. He looked... lonely... and sad. She wanted to offer something further in the way of comfort, but he was still a stranger and she was uncertain of what to say. Still... something about the look in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings.

Watson shook himself from his musings with an apologetic smile, this really wouldn't do. "I'm sorry, where were we?"

Sally smiled back—he really did have a nice smile. "_We_ were in a galaxy far, far away. Or traveling, take your pick."

Watson's heart skipped a beat, before realising she was only referring to _Star Wars_. "Ah, I've also seen Paris, from above and below." Funny, he'd never thought about it that way before.

Sally's eyes widened. "You've been up the Eiffel Tower?" She wrapped her hands around her beaker, appreciating the warmth in the slightly-too-cool cafe. "I'm definitely jealous." She'd never even made it off Great Britain, and she'd always wanted to visit France.

"Actually, the Tower was a bit of an anticlimax after the catacombs." To say the least...

She raised both eyebrows in surprise. "Very nice," she said appreciatively. "Lots of history down there. So... what were you up to?"

He knew he shouldn't, but he just couldn't resist. "Hunting a vampire."

_What?!_ No, wait, mischief glinted in his eyes. Odd joke, but she'd play along. "Vampires in Paris. Who'd've thought?"

"Her victims certainly didn't..." Oh God, _why_ had he said that? "But what can you expect at Halloween?" Watson hastened to add, wishing fervently he'd never opened his mouth.

She blinked. _...what_. Opened her mouth, then closed it. The bit about Halloween rang hollowly in her ears—not that she thought for a second that any real vampires were involved, but... John Walker was not quite telling the truth. "Not much else, I suppose," Sally murmured, and took another sip of her coffee.

Definitely time to change the subject. "But enough about me." Watson sat back, trying to at least appear relaxed. "So, what do you do when you're not studying?"

Hmm... "I read." Sally shrugged. "And I explore, sort of. I take photos as a hobby—purely a hobby, mind: I'm not interested in it enough to pursue a living that way... But I do enjoy it." She shrugged again. There really wasn't much thus far to speak of in her short life.

"What kind of photos?" Watson took his first test tube of espresso from its stand, sipping carefully.

She grinned ruefully. "Photos of old things, typically. Especially old houses—I love old houses." She'd grown up in a sterile, cookie-cutter house with her aunt; she lived in a sterile, cookie-cutter flat now; and she would give anything to live in a faded old house that had every bit as much character to it as the people who'd lived in it had.

Watson couldn't help but smile himself at the growing enthusiasm in her voice. "If only the preservation societies weren't so dreadfully outnumbered, there'd be a lot more of them still standing." Although he'd actually been quite impressed at how much of the 'modern' architecture of his era remained after all this time.

Sally moaned. "Oh, I know." It hurt her heart to think about the history that just faded away all the time... "People just don't care... all they're concerned about is the here and now."

"...too true..." The lump in Watson's throat was back, chest aching as a sudden wave of homesickness crashed over him. He'd only revisited Baker Street once since discovering the museum, it was too painful a reminder of how far he really was from home...

He was definitely in pain. He was lonely and in pain, and she wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he was _still a stranger_. ...so why didn't he feel like one? After a pause, she murmured, "Do you want to talk about it?

What he wouldn't have given at that moment to confide in her, tell her everything... He fought the impulse, this was not the time, if there ever would be one. He had nothing to offer her, no conclusive proof of any kind, one more word out of place would probably end with Sally thinking him insane – and Watson could bear the loneliness far more easily than he could the thought of this dear, sweet girl being afraid of him, for any reason. He shook his head, trying to smile. "Thank you, Sally... but I'll be all right."

She nodded slowly, not at all convinced. "If you're sure..."

He'd rarely been less certain of anything, but managed a nod. Then his eyes widened as he caught sight of the clock above the counter. "And I'd best let you escape, I think." Good heavens, had they really been talking for half an hour?

Her eyes widened in turn—she had a math quiz this evening to study for. "Oh God, I do have to go." She stood, then paused—now was about the time when normal people asked for contact info, wasn't it? Exchanging phone numbers? She liked this enigmatic, lonely man very much, and she certainly wouldn't mind further coffee outings, but... How was she to go about asking him for his number or giving him hers?

Watson stood with her, holding out his hand. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to make you lose track of time. It was lovely to meet you, Sally." Despite any awkward moments, he hadn't enjoyed anyone's company so much in what seemed a very long time.

She felt her face go warm as she shook his hand. "It was nice meeting you." The words sounded inadequate, but she hesitated to sound like a teenager with a crush. She let go of his hand and paused again, wanting very much to ask for his number or give him her own. But that would be putting herself on the line, and was she actually afraid to do that? What was wrong with her?

Was she... blushing? "No doubt we'll run into each other again sometime." _Oh, for God's sake, man, can you at least __**try**__ not to sound like a buffoon?_

She smiled, unreasonably flattered—surely, he was only being courteous! "I would like that." Her eyes widened again as she realised how _not right_ that sounded. "Not-not that I would like to _literally_ run into you again, but I, ah, oh..." Blushing again, she turned to leave, feeling like a complete idiot. "Definitely going now."

Watson couldn't suppress a chuckle, he was too relieved at not being the only one feeling tongue-tied. "Goodbye, Sally –" adding on a sudden impulse: "take care."

She stopped and smiled back at him over her shoulder, touched at the sentiment. "You, too. Bye."

Sally Sparrow had never been sure before if she actually believed in love at first sight—or first meeting, anyway. But just now, walking away from an encounter with a handsome man who seemed to check off most of the boxes on her wishlist, she almost thought she might.

Watson raised a hand in farewell, watching her leave with a strange sinking feeling... but that was foolish, no doubt they would see each other again, they spent enough time in the same place... and it was only then that he realised he was still beaming like an idiot. Oh no... dear God, no, he _couldn't_ be... they'd only just met... He groaned softly, sinking back down into his chair, head in his hands.

"Perfect."

* * *

**Author's note from Sky: ***whistles innocently* Let me start out by saying that Sally is just tough to write, even though she's one of the best rounded one-shot characters in the show. We just don't know very much about her education, her interests outside of "old things" and photography, or her life goals. I had to make things up based on some, well, basic deductions, and I'm all the time scared (even after two years of roleplaying her) that I'm getting her voice wrong.

Also, d'awww, Watson. *hugs him* The poor dear just has a tendency towards love at first sight!

**Author's note from Ria:** True facts – thank God he at least manages to keep falling for nice girls! But naturally, the course of true love never runs smooth, especially when you have _two_ angst-happy authors on the case... *evil chuckle* Stay tuned!


	4. Love From The Doctor

**==Chapter 4==**

**Love From The Doctor**

_"It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you"_

— E. M. Forster, A Room with a View

Sally was on her way to the nearest parking lot from the college library, her best friend Kathy Nightingale in tow. She stopped when she heard a familiar baritone greet her with a "Hello." She turned fully towards the owner of the voice, her face brightening: it was her handsome, enigmatic stranger. "Hi, John. Ah, John, this is my friend Kathy; Kathy, this is John. We bumped into each other the other day."

John grinned sheepishly. "Literally, as I recall." He extended a hand to Kathy, who shook it, her dark eyes wide. "It's nice to meet you, Kathy."

"Nice to meet you, too, finally," said Kathy. She turned back to Sally. "Girl, you didn't say he was _this_ cute!"

Ah, yes, Sally could always count on her bestie for support. "Yeah, ah, no." She blushed. "Moving on…" To John: "What are you up to?"

The poor man was rather red-faced, himself. Sally swore that if Kathy ruined her first good chance at having a real boyfriend (and a sweet one, at that!), she'd kill her, bestie or not. "Ah, the library, I have a date," he stammered. Blushing harder, he said hastily, "_Some_ dates to check—I'm writing an article on the college's history." He looked down at the ground as if willing it to open up and swallow him.

"Oh, I think that should be fun!" This was Sally's element, after all: history, research, writing. "Do you have any specific focus or a set length or anything?"

He looked up again, expression grateful. "Ah, yes, the college's foundation and original faculty—" he grinned ruefully—"five thousand words."

She tilted her head and smiled. "Well, then, that ought to be just enough space to dig up and flesh out a good story or three about the faculty." She shrugged. "Everybody's got a story." And stories about founders were often the best.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes—actually, I shouldn't wonder if at least a few of the original students were still alive and well…"

Kathy grinned. "Ohhh, and I just _bet_ they'll have some colourful stories about their professors!"

Sally gave her an exasperated look. _Honestly_. "Right. You mean the ones he _won't_ be allowed to publish?"

Kathy shrugged in return. "Hey, can't libel the dead, right?"

John chuckled. "Sadly, it's a college paper; I'm not supposed to make them turn in their graves, either!"

Sally shook her head. "You see what I have to put up with?"

Kathy gave her a good-natured smirk. "Just keeping you on your toes."

Sally raised an eyebrow, just as good-natured. "Funny, and here I thought I was dangling…" She turned back to John with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry—we should let you get back to work."

He smiled regretfully. "Indeed, I must be going." His smile softened, and Sally couldn't help thinking that he really was the nicest and possibly even handsomest man she'd ever met. "It was good to see you again."

Her own smile turned soft in response. "Yeah, it was good seeing you again. Should, um, bump into you more often." Her eyes widened in horror as she realised just how bad that could sound, and she grabbed Kathy's arm. "Bye!" She all but ran, pulling Kathy with her.

The _demon child_ giggled. "I _was_ going to say something suggestive, but you beat me to it!"

Sally groaned. "You are the absolute worst! As if it wasn't bad enough, my not even knowing how to act around a cute guy…"

Kathy grinned teasingly. "Looked to me like you were doing okay—your boyfriend could hardly take his eyes off you!"

Sally blushed again—he most certainly had not. John Walker was probably not at all _interested_ in a college kid nearly young enough to be his daughter. Most likely, he was only being friendly. "He's not my boyfriend! I only just met him—we don't even have each other's numbers!"

Kathy stared, shaking her head in disbelief. "Girl… what _are_ you playing at?"

Sally groaned. "It's not like I didn't want to! But… I don't know… something about him…" She shook her head—it wasn't just the age gap. "It just suddenly seemed… way too overt. Almost crass." She flung her hands out helplessly. "I don't know…"

Kathy smiled sympathetically. "Aw, sweetie…" She patted Sally's shoulder kindly, then she took on a mock-stern tone. "But seriously, if you don't grab him, I will, so get on with it!"

Sally laughed silently, half-despairingly, and shook her head. She would like nothing better than to get to know John Walker better, but she wasn't at all sure that that would ever happen, much less anything more serious. "We'll see…"

* * *

_All right, look: what matters is we can communicate. We have got big problems now. They've taken the blue box, haven't they? The angels have the phone box._

"Sounds like a T-shirt," Watson murmured wearily, studying his latest journal entry yet again. He snapped the notebook shut with a sigh of frustration, he already had the Doctor's message fragment memorised from staring at it the first twenty times... but what on earth did it mean? What angels? The only angel he knew of was that statue he'd seen in the warehouse where his companions and the TARDIS had vanished... but that couldn't be it, statues weren't alive.

It had been a severe blow to discover that Holmes and the Doctor were also stranded in Time without the TARDIS, and clearly in the past, not the future – but what date? And why was the Doctor calling his ship 'the blue box', why not call her by her real name? Unless he was worried about leaving too detailed a message where it could be found by accident, given that that was exactly how Watson had found it. Just a offhanded quip in an internet chat room... _the angels have the phone box_... and since then he'd barely slept in his quest for the rest of the message.

Well... if he was entirely honest with himself, he'd had more than his usual difficulty sleeping ever since his first date... _encounter_ with Sally. It was all very well telling himself that this was a mere infatuation, most likely brought on by lack of companionship, and the sooner he left, the better for the both of them... but that didn't keep him from smiling every time he thought about her, or seeing her beautiful amber eyes every time he closed his own...

Watson groaned, shaking his head – he was hopeless and he knew it. Even if he weren't due to leave again – although Heaven knew when, even now! – what possible chance would he have? No modern female would truly want a Victorian-age antique like him, _and_ he was nearly old enough to be her father, for heaven's sake...

"Hello, John."

Watson's heart missed a beat, looking up to see Sally ahead of him on the path, smiling warmly; he couldn't help smiling back.

"Sally." Dear Lord, were they ever going to stop meeting like this? He tried in vain to ignore the treacherous thought that whispered: _When you stop spending more time than necessary on campus_... "It's good to see you – I was hoping we'd meet again."

Sally's eyes shone, smile turning shy. "I was hoping that, too. I mean... I enjoyed our talk the other day."

"So did I." _For God's sake, man, what are you, a moonstruck teenager? Grow up! _Watson's smile faded, knowing deep down that that relentless inner voice was in the right of it. However either of them might feel about each other, he couldn't lead her on like this, it wouldn't be fair. "Would, ah..." He took a deep, quiet breath. "Would you walk with me? If you're free, that is," he added hastily. "I don't want to make you late for anything else..." Perfect, now he was starting to babble. He fell silent, cheeks growing warm.

Sally's smile turned reassuring. "All I have to do right now is homework." She shrugged, grinning. "Obviously, I'm not. I'll get to it... this evening." Another shrug. "It's a beautiful day, I'm enjoying it."

Watson nodded, wishing that he could say the same. He pocketed his notebook and inclined his head invitingly, sternly suppressing the impulse to offer her his arm as they continued on together. "How have you been?"

"Pretty well. Been taking lots of pictures as the leaves turn – lovely colours right now. How about you?"

"Mm, not too bad." Although Watson knew his face was telling a very different story. Seeing himself in the mirror this morning, for the first time in 48 hours, had been an unpleasant wakeup call. The last time Holmes had looked that haggard, Watson had forbidden him to receive any clients for a fortnight...

He suddenly became aware that Sally was looking him over in obvious concern. "You don't look so well," she said softly. "What's wrong?"

Watson grimaced. "Understandable. I've been doing some... rather intensive research over the last few days. I haven't had much chance to catch up on sleep yet."

He couldn't escape her studying gaze. "Investigative journalism?"

"No, it's more of a... personal matter." He drew another deep breath. "The problem is that... that research has led to certain... complications." _Coward..._

Sally reached out and laid her hand on his arm – it was all Watson could do not to take it in his own. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not in the least... but... I'm afraid I must." Watson forced the words out, each one a knife in his gut. "Sally... I have no idea what the future holds, but... whatever does happen... I doubt that I'll be here for much longer." _Dear God, give me strength._.. "The last thing I would ever want is for you to get hurt... and I am deeply concerned that... if we continue to spend time in each other's company..." The lump in his throat was back with a vengeance.

Sally had listened to his stammerings with an incredulous frown, hand unconsciously withdrawing from his arm. "John, what are you talking about? Are you in trouble? What's wrong?"

Oh, where to begin... "Forgive me, Sally... I wish I could give you an explanation... but trust me, it's better for us both if we go our separate ways."

Her disbelieving laugh twisted his insides. "You're breaking us up... when we're not even together in the first place? What is it? Are you... a convict? Witness protection? Undercover agent? What?"

Watson shook his head sadly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." If only he _could_ lie to her, give her at least a concrete reason for his wounding her. "I'm so sorry, my dear – you deserve far better than this."

Her voice grew sharp. "Don't tell me what I can and can't believe – you might be surprised. And don't think I can't tell that you're handling this alone, either, and you shouldn't be."

They finally agreed on something, and he couldn't even tell her... Watson set his jaw, hating himself – but there seemed no other choice, she was as stubborn as he was. "Goodbye, Sally. Do both of us a favour, and forget me." Turning on his heel, he walked away from her as swiftly as his limp would allow, blinking hard. It was taking every ounce of self control he had not to turn back... but then running footsteps sounded behind him, and she was blocking his path again.

"Maybe you can, but _I_ can't!" She thrust a scrap of paper into his hand, eyes burning with unshed tears as they searched his face. "Call me when you're ready to stop acting like a self-destructive idiot." And then she was striding away from him, back the way she'd come, head held high.

Watson stared after her helplessly until she'd disappeared around the corner, then down at the paper in his hand, bearing Sally's hastily-scribbled telephone number. He shouldn't keep it, he knew that – it was clear to him now why she'd looked so sad when he'd first seen her. He only had to open his fingers and let the autumn breeze snatch the paper away, a clean break for them both... but all the way home, his hand remained stubbornly closed.

* * *

_Danger: Keep Out: Unsafe Structure, London County Council_. So… getting onto the grounds of Wester Drumlins was technically illegal, but it was precisely _because_ it was so old and broken-down that Sally wanted to photograph it. Old houses were the classical music that soothed her soul, which kind of needed soothing right now.

An October shower was just petering out, which suited her purposes just fine. The night being wet meant that the odds of her not being caught were in her favour.

She grabbed hold of the lovely wrought-iron gates and began to climb. Getting onto the grounds presented no difficulty; getting into the house, well… After searching for five minutes, she had to settle for breaking a boarded-up window; not the kind of entry she'd wanted to make, but there was just no other way to get into the house. It was abandoned and probably condemned, anyway—she was certainly not going to hurt anything, and she wanted to get photos of the place before it was gone.

The scent of rot hung heavy in the air. Dulled chandeliers rested beneath dusty plastic on the floors, and faded wallpaper had peeled away from the wall in many places. It put her in mind of melancholic classical piano.

She couldn't deny that she was also a bit spooked—she'd never ventured alone into an abandoned space at night before. But there was really nothing to be scared of; this place was _abandoned_, and it wasn't as if there were monsters in the dark like the ones that had plagued her childhood nightmares. Even so… she couldn't quite shake the feeling of being watched, which was also ridiculous, and which she set down to nerves. How could you _feel_ if somebody was watching you, anyway?

_Oh_. Oh, what was this? A letter—"B," she thought—peeked from beneath one of the pieces of peeling wallpaper. Which was fantastic—written messages beneath wallpaper and flooring were always fun to uncover. She pulled the paper further back…

"_Beware the Weeping Angels."_

...all right, ominous. She stripped more paper away below that.

"_Oh, and duck! Really, duck! Sally Sparrow, duck, now."_

Cold fear and adrenaline flashed through her body, and she ducked on instinct. The window behind her shattered, and something hit the wall just about where her head had been two seconds before. The object, a garden pot, bounced off the wall and shattered on the floor. She shuddered, too stunned to think coherently. She turned and shined her torch out the window, but no one was there, just a stone angel statue, posed with its hands covering its face. _A weeping angel,_ her mind supplied, and she shuddered again.

From whom had the message on the wall come? And why was it addressed to _her?_ And what kind of sick coincidence could it be that she would uncover a message ostensibly telling her to duck, barely two seconds before a thrown object nearly killed her?

She'd find out first, and _then_ she'd run.

But all the wall had to say was _"Love from the Doctor, 1969"_.

* * *

After a thoroughly bizarre experience in an abandoned house, Sally was not really willing to go back to her apartment and spend the rest of the night alone. She'd never get any sleep—not that she was probably going to get any sleep at Kathy's flat, either, which was where she was headed.

She hurried up the stairs, calling "Kathy?"

The living room was full of TV screens, every one of them featuring an old-looking video of a man in his thirties, with spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, glasses, and a brown pinstripe suit. One screen included another man in his thirties, pale and dark-haired, grey-eyed, with classical features and wearing a plain grey, vaguely '60s suit.

The first man was saying, "They're coming. The angels are coming for you. But listen, your life could depend on this. Don't blink! Don't even blink. Blink, and you're dead. They are fast, faster than you can believe. Don't turn your back, don't look away, and don't blink. Good luck." The video then froze, and Sally shivered slightly. _Weird_.

She rang up Kathy and waited. _"Hello?"_ said her friend. Sally felt a bit bad about waking Kathy up, but one of the things about their friendship was that they could ring each other up at any time if they really needed someone to talk to.

"Bit freaked," Sally told her. She pulled out the coffee canister and filters and started to fix a pot of coffee. "Need to talk. Making you a coffee."

"_Sally Sparrow, it's one in the morning. Do you think I'm coming round at one in the morning?"_

"No. I'm in the kitchen. What's that on all those screens in your front room?"

"_Oh, God,"_ Kathy said in a panicked tone. _"Oh, God. Sally, you've met my brother Larry, haven't you?"_

"No."

"_You're about to."_

Sally was just wondering how this would be a bad thing when the kitchen door opened to reveal a blond young man who was most definitely naked. _Oh_.

"Okay," said the man Sally assumed was Larry. "Not sure, but really, really hoping. Pants?"

Eyes wide, Sally shook her head. "No."

From upstairs, Kathy began to shout furiously. "Put them on! Put them on! I hate you! What're you thinking?"

Larry drifted away, obviously still half-asleep.

Kathy entered the kitchen, wrapping her robe around her. "Sorry. My useless brother." Then something about Sally's face must have betrayed her… state of not-quite-upset, because Kathy bent down with a look of concern. "Sally? What's wrong? What's happened? Is it John again?"

* * *

In the full light of day, Sally, Kathy, and Larry made an expedition to Wester Drumlins. Kathy glowered at her brother as they began to climb the fence. "Can't you just stay with the car?"

Larry smirked. "Driver's privilege—that's why keys were invented."

"Kathy, it's okay," said Sally. "We might need him anyway if we run into whoever threw that pot at me last night." She winked, but she was half-serious: the missile that nearly killed her had unsettled her just as much as the message to her from 1969.

Larry blushed, looking awkward, then grinned appreciatively at the house as it came into view. "Like I'd miss something like this? This is so Scooby Doo!"

Kathy rolled her eyes in a clear "why me?" manner.

Inside the entrance hall, she was still not impressed. "What did you come here for, anyway?"

Sally smiled and led the way to the drawing room. "I love old things. They make me feel sad."

Larry looked at her oddly. "So what's good about sad?"

Sally raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes, mischief glinting in them. "It's _happy_—for _deep_ people."

Kathy smirked.

Larry looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be offended. His eyes widened as he took in the message on the wall. "You weren't joking!"

Kathy looked out the broken window. "Is that the Weeping Angel? Wouldn't mind that in my garden."

Sally joined her and frowned, a chill running down her spine. "It's moved."

Behind her, she could hear Larry peeling off more wallpaper.

Kathy blinked. "It's what?"

Sally stared at the angel. "...since yesterday. I'm sure of it. It's closer. It's got closer to the house."

Kathy gave her a disbelieving grin. "Oh, come on. It was dark last time; everything looks different at night!" She looked back at Larry. "What are you doing?"

"Well, there might be more!"

Sally sighed. Every bit of her instinct told her that something was very, _very_ wrong here. "I know what I saw, and I'm pretty sure there's nothing more there. What I want to know is, _how_ is it possible? "

Kathy shrugged. "Someone's playing a joke?"

Larry frowned doubtfully. "Strange sort of prank—did anyone else know you were coming here?"

Sally shook her head. "It's off-limits—the only person to whom I would ever say something about this in the first place would be your sister. Besides which…" She nodded at the wall. "...the wallpaper. This is old—older than the week that I've even known about this place."

"Yeah…" Larry tilted his head, looking at the message again with an odd expression. "It's weird, actually…"

Sally frowned again. "Yes, we did establish that…"

He shook his head. "No, it's just… that guy on the DVDs, he keeps going on about angels."

Her frown deepened. "The DVDs you were watching last night?"

"Yeah, I was checking to see if they were all the same. He's an Easter egg."

"Excuse me?"

"You know how on DVDs they put extras on, documentaries and stuff? Well, sometimes they put on hidden ones, Easter eggs. You have to look for them, follow a bunch of clues in the menu screen. And that guy's on seventeen different DVDs."

Kathy rolled her eyes again. "Yeah, and all he does is sit there saying random stuff—real interesting!"

Larry gave her a Look. "It is, actually." He turned back to Sally. "It's like he's having half a conversation. Me and the guys are always trying to work out the other half."

Intrigued herself now, Sally smiled. "When you say you and the guys, you mean the Internet, don't you?"

Larry gave her an odd look again. "How d'you know?"

Her eyes glinted with mischief again. "Spooky, isn't it?"

The doorbell rang just then, and all three jumped.

"Who'd come here?" Kathy whispered.

Larry managed to give her another Look, despite his wide eyes. "You mean besides us?"

Sally rolled her eyes and made to return to the front door. Kathy grabbed her arm. "What are you doing? It could be a burglar."

"A burglar who rings the doorbell of an abandoned house?"

Kathy conceded with a nod. "Okay. We'll stay here in case of…"

It was Sally's turn to give her a Look. "In case of…?"

"Incidents?" Kathy said weakly.

Larry rolled his eyes. "It's probably just some preservation society nut."

Sally sighed again and shook her head. "Fine." She returned to the front door and opened it to find a ginger-haired young man waiting.

"I'm looking for Sally Sparrow," he said.

Okay, this was just getting ridiculous now. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"I was told to bring this letter on this date at this exact time to Sally Sparrow."

Sally eyed the envelope in his hands. "Looks old."

"It is old. I'm sorry, do you have anything with a photograph on it, like a driving license?"

Definitely gone from weird to absurd.

* * *

Kathy and Larry hovered at the edge of the sitting room doorway, peeking around it to watch Sally and the newcomer. A rustle outside sounded behind them.

"Wait here," Kathy whispered. She moved back and turned to go out into the conservatory. There was nothing. No animals, no people, just another angel statue close to the house. She must not have seen it when she was looking out a minute ago.

* * *

"How did they know I was coming here?" Sally asked as she rummaged her purse for her license. "I didn't tell anyone. How could anyone have known?"

"It's all a bit complicated. I'm not sure I understand it myself."

Sally found her card and held it up for him.

* * *

Kathy returned to the drawing room door.

Larry glanced over his shoulder. "What was it?" His expression changed to a puzzled frown as he looked past Kathy into the conservatory.

"Just a bird, I think. What's wrong?"

"Sorry," he said, "just… I didn't notice _that_ statue there before…"

* * *

The man studied the card. "I'm sorry, I feel really stupid, but I was told to make absolutely sure. It's so hard to tell with these little photographs, isn't it?"

Sally's patience was starting to wear thin. "Apparently."

"Well, here goes, I suppose. Funny feeling, after all these years."

"Who's it from?"

"Well, that's a long story, actually."

She could have slapped him for being so ridiculously hesitant. "Give me a name."

* * *

Kathy turned to look in the same direction. "Well, if you hadn't been…" She gasped at the sight of an Angel statue standing almost in the conservatory doorway, staring straight at them, both hands down. "Oh my God…!"

* * *

"Katherine Wainwright. But she specified I should tell you that prior to marriage, she was called Kathy Nightingale. "

* * *

Kathy turned away unthinkingly to look at Larry, eyes wide. "That wasn't—"

* * *

A door slammed shut somewhere in the house

Sally paid it little heed as she said echoed, "Kathy?"

"Kathy, yes. Katherine Costello Nightingale."

"Is this a joke?"

"A joke?"

It had to be. "Kathy, is this you?" Sally called, as she turned and walked back to the drawing room. "Very funny. ...Kathy?"

There was no one there. Just the statue outside.

"Kathy? Kathy!" The door slam—that had been the drawing room door. But where the hell was Kathy and her brother?!

The man followed her in. "Please, you need to take this. I promised."

Sally rounded on him, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline, very much ready to slap him. She needed _answers_, and he sounded like a broken record! "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"I made a promise."

She tried not to growl. "Who to?" She wasn't sure she succeeded.

"My grandmother, Katherine Costello Nightingale."

"Your grandmother?"

"Yes. She died twenty years ago." He would have been very young then, when his grandmother died. What a responsibility to saddle a child with!

Sally opened the envelope, withdrawing from it old photographs of an eerily-familiar woman. "So they're related?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My Kathy, your grandmother. They're practically identical." She began to read the letter.

_My dearest Sally Sparrow,_

_If my grandson has done as he promises he will, then as you read these words it has been mere minutes since we last spoke. For you. For Lawrence and I, it has been over sixty years. The third of the photographs is of my children. The youngest is Sally. I named her after you, of course._

_I have thought long and hard about how to tell you about the events that befell us. I do not fully understand what happened myself..._

Sally looked up. "This is sick. This is totally sick!" She threw down the photographs and the letter and ran up the stairs. "Kathy? Kathy! Larry?" She heard the front door close and ran back downstairs. "No, wait! Hang on!"

The man was heading down the driveway. Darn him, why was he leaving?! She picked up the photographs and letter and ran outside, just in time to watch him drive off.

She walked away from Wester Drumlins alone.

* * *

In her favorite cafe, with a mocha latte to soothe her, Sally finished the letter.

_You love the mournfulness and fragility of old things - the sadness of things finished, over with. But every moment, when it happens, is as fresh and optimistic as the moment you are in now._

_I suppose, unless I live to a really exceptional old age, I will be long gone as you read this. But right now I'm alive, and living a life that is every bit as real as yours._

_Don't feel sorry for me. I have led a good and full life. I've loved a good man and been well loved in return. You would have liked Ben – I wish you could have met him. He was the very first person Lawrence and I met in 1920._

_To take one breath in 2007 and have the next in 1920 is a strange way to start a new life, but a new life is exactly what I wanted. Lawrence took a while longer to adjust to the lack of technology, but I think, eventually, he also found what he was looking for. Our mum and dad are gone by your time, so really there's no one else to tell._

_Sally, I'm so sorry—I know your family are gone, too, and I hate to think of you on your own. You'll probably say I'm sticking my nose in again, but I have to ask: is it possible that you and John...? I don't know what he did to make you angry, but the one time I met him at college, his face lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw you—and plenty of relationships have started on a lot less. Maybe I can't steal him off you now, but that's no excuse for not taking the chance to be happy when it comes your way. Don't be scared._

_All my love,_

_Kathy_

There was a note inside the envelope, scribbled in a different hand, that gave the name of a cemetery and its location. Sally didn't want to go find the grave, but… she had to.

Benjamin and Katherine Wainwright. Just an ordinary headstone in an ordinary cemetery. But her best friend was lying in the grave beneath, with her husband. Dead for twenty years. Died the year Sally was born, 1987.

She set down the white lilies she'd brought and knelt down to read the inscription. Kathy's birth year was listed as 1902. "1902?" Something about that rang wrong… if the Nightingales had landed in 1920… Sally grinned past her tears. "You told him you were eighteen? You lying cow."

She stood and walked away from the cemetery. Once she really started crying, she wouldn't stop, and she wasn't going to do it here. She was going to find out the truth about Wester Drumlins, and why Kathy and Larry ended up in the past.

And then she'd mourn.

* * *

**Author's note from Sky:**

Ow, oh, my heart! Poor Watson and Sally! In all seriousness, Watson does canonically have self-esteem issues. Nowhere is this more blatant than in _The Sign of the Four_, when he believes he's unworthy of Mary, but it's all throughout the Canon. Most of his references to himself are pretty derogatory.

...as for Kathy Nightingale, you have Ria to thank for her being a demon child. ;) And as for Sally... well, yes, she has some issues herself, but thank goodness she didn't let Watson walk away without calling him out and giving him her number! Doggone it, now I have Sally feels and I _still_ want her to be an actual Companion!

**Author's note from Ria: **

*hugs Sally and Watson, then bangs their heads together* And that's all I have to say about that... well, till next chapter, anyway! In which we may just see more of Holmes and the Doctor... stay tuned!


End file.
